


The Persian Version

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:28:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drunk!Dean appreciates drunk!Sam's smarts. Also his shoulders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Persian Version

**Author's Note:**

> Comment ficlet for the Drunk Winchesters post-7.18 meme hosted by glovered on LJ. Includes sex while intoxicated.

Sam’s a smart guy. Not like they let just anyone into Stanford, after all. Sure he’s had a few glitches. But accidentally starting the apocalypse is the kind of thing that could have happened to anybody. As for that driving thing, where the last car but three Frank had got them had been a stick and Dean had told Sam to shift up to fifth and he’d shifted down to second and smoke had come from under the hood and the noise, the noise had hurt Dean, because you know, she wasn’t his baby (bucket of rust, more like) but she was someone’s, right? every engine is some mother’s child, there’s a song about that, or a saying or something, maybe some kind of lore --anyway, for that Dean blames Lucifer. 

But Lucifer’s gone now, Cas, you poor fucking fucker, and Dean’s not going to think about that, not like Cas didn’t owe them, breaking Sam’s melon like that, though Sam has to angst every time it comes up. Anyway, Lucifer’s gone. So Sam’s not distracted. And Dean only has to look at him, that massive forehead he’s got, the way it wrinkles when he thinks, like Gandalf or something, some giant moose wizard, Dean only has to look at him to remember just how smart Sam sometimes is.

Sam’s got the bottle, right there beside him, and that was smart. Because Sam must have figured in advance the room would start moving, and when it started spinning, which, cool, maybe it’s been spinning all along, maybe that’s another one of those things you can only see drunk, huh, Dean should bring up that idea to Sam because Sam’s smart, they could probably have some deep talk about that. Dean’s missed that, talking. Anyway, Sam had been smart and he’d brought the bottles over before the spinning started, or before they started being able to see the spinning, depending, so they don’t have to walk through the spinning to get the booze. 

Dean reaches for the bottle and he’s about to get Sam’s input on the spinning thing, because they’re partners, they figure shit out together, that’s what they do. But Sam’s also reached for the bottle and they tussle for a moment, because Sam’s smart, sure, but it’s not like Dean’s stupid. Plus he’s older, he’s, like, the firstborn, and there’s always mystic shit with that. Which means if there’s any contest, Dean gets the booze. Sam lets go because he’s smart. 

So Dean takes a swig and he puts the bottle down beside him this time and he’s about to bring up the spinning thing, but Sam says, “Dean.” And he’s got that wrinkly thing going again, the Gandalf look, or maybe Einstein. Gandalfstein. He’s got the hair for it. So Dean knows whatever Sam’s about to say is going to be smart.

“Yeah, Sammy?” he says. 

“I think we should have sex,” says Sam.

And, OK. Sam’s smart, and he’s also got these shoulders. Sometimes Dean just wants to grab them, because Sam’s always falling, always tumbling into some fucking hole, and then Dean, Dean’s not too steady, either, he needs something to hold onto. Sam’s shoulders, they seem like they’re strong, like they’d hold. Sam’s got these shoulders and he’s got those long legs, excessive, really, Sam doesn’t get moderation, but right now one of them’s somehow got tangled up with Dean’s. The line of Sam’s thigh is warm and solid and Sam’s got his ankle hooked over Dean’s ankle and their feet are knocking together, two big brown shoes. Dean looks at the shoes while he thinks about Sam’s idea. Sam’s ribs are rising and falling under Dean’s arm – they may have gotten tangled there as well, or Dean’s sort of maybe leaning a little – and that has everything to do with the warm breath that’s tickling Dean’s ear. All these are compelling arguments. 

“We’re drunk,” says Dean, because that could be an objection. “And brothers,” he adds, an afterthought. “We’re, like, drunk brothers.” 

“Yeah,” says Sam. “But, dude, think about it. I mean, we’ve thought about it. You know we have. I mean, dude. We’ve thought about it when we weren’t drunk. The way I figure it is we do it now when we’re drunk because now’s when we’ll do it, but it’s not like it’s something we thought of when we were drunk because we weren’t when we thought about it. Kind of division of labor. Or maybe balance of powers. The Persians did it.”

“The Persians had sex?” asks Dean. They probably did. 

“That’s how they made decisions,” says Sam. “Once drunk, once sober. It was, like, a principle. Or a process. The Persian process principle. Only I figure this is better because we have a better process. We don’t just do drunk and sober. I mean, me, I’ve thought about this drunk and sober and crazy and sane and alive and dead. And I’m pretty sure, I mean, you, you, I mean, I’m right, right?”

Sam’s smart but he’s not always articulate. 

Dean tugs at Sam’s hair – this whole tangling thing, it keeps getting worse, or maybe better, because now Dean’s hand is in Sam’s hair – he tugs at Sam’s hair till his mouth is in the right place for Dean to kiss him. Sam kind of lunges, all grabby, and Dean slides down the wall to the floor and Sam’s over him, kissing. First it’s his lips on Dean’s and his tongue in Dean’s mouth, claiming, and the little urgent noises he makes, the taste of his breath, the way his fucking heavy sasquatch body is pinning Dean down. It’s OK, it’s like shelter, Dean’s drunk, he’s allowed to be corny, he’s allowed to want shelter. And Dean’s under Sam, Sam can’t fall into any holes in the ground now, not without going through Dean. 

Then Sam’s kissing Dean’s neck and it’s Dean making noise, moaning, tilting his head back, stretching this way and that to give Sam access, because he needs Sam’s marks everywhere, every inch of skin. Sam sucks wet, possessive bruises, fastening on Dean’s pulse point till the heat spreads through Dean’s blood, hammered into his veins with every beat of his heart. Sam’s rocking against him, “Dean, Dean” over and over, little gasping breaths of it. Dean opens his legs, settles Sam in so they notch together, so he can feel Sam hard and hot and long against him. They’re both still in their clothes. Doesn’t matter, drunk, sober, alive, dead, mad, sane, naked, clothed, doesn’t matter. They move together, Sam’s hips jerking down, Dean rocking up to meet him. The room’s spinning. It’s been spinning all along, they just couldn’t see it. Spinning on its center, steady as a humming top.


End file.
